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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29459556">Sunbreak</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding'>OldBeginningNewEnding</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bantering, Fantasy AU, Florist Crowley, Fluff, GOLoveDay, Getting Together, M/M, Potions Master Aziraphale, Valentine's Day, but not the kind you expect, flirting by annoying the heck out of each other, love potions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:54:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,314</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29459556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The very first thing to come out of Aziraphale’s frowning mouth was: “I thought I told you no refunds.”</p><p>Crowley rolled his eyes, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “What good is a love potion if it won’t make you fall in love with me?”</p><p>Instead of his heart doing somersaults in his chest and absolutely swooning, Aziraphale chose to immediately bristle. “I told you before, that’s not what they do—”</p><p>***Written for GO Love Day***</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Fantasy &amp; Fairy Tales</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sunbreak</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/john1513/gifts">john1513</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the lovely alwayscomewhenyoucall on tumblr/ john1513 on ao3~ I'm so sorry this was ALMOST late my dear but I hope you had a wonderful Valentine's Day!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the day of the Festival of Crystals in their sleepy little town.</p><p>Aziraphale sighed, mixing another batch of potions; it was <em>hours </em>before opening the shop, but the potions master was already hard at work as he sprinkled an array of powders and petal-dust to the bubbling brew. He wiped the sweat beading from his brow as he breathed in the sweet, fragrant scent swirling from the pot, humming with contentment as telltale bubbles floated to the surface.</p><p>The pearlescent fluid almost seemed to shimmer as Aziraphale’s own critical eye watched for the ever-so-subtle shift in hue that indicated the potion’s completion. He could leave no room for error—the <em>tiniest </em>miscalculation of ingredients, the <em>slightest </em>second longer in the fire, and the whole batch would be ruined.</p><p>And take Aziraphale’s entire business down with it.</p><p>It was a bit tricky running a bookshop when Aziraphale himself was partial to every tome in his collection, so he’d supplemented the lack of income with aid of another marketable skill—a little something he had shown quite the knack for when he trained at the Royal Academy another lifetime ago.</p><p>Potions were finicky and required precision and meticulous care. If Aziraphale had devoted his entire life to <em>this </em>section of the shop, why, he’d never be able to settle down for a good read! It was fortunate, then, that he only needed to work one season a year.</p><p>When the dark of winter melted and the winds of new beginnings blew across the valleys; when the Romanticas ripened their shades and the night air grew heavy with starfall, and the promises of romance hung in the minds of their kingdom—</p><p>Aziraphale opened shop.</p><p>The Festival of Crystals was celebrated far and wide, but it wasn’t until Aziraphale had settled into the then-budding village of Eden that the denizens had reason to fully partake. After all, what was the Festival of Crystals without Love Potions—and what were Love Potions without a proper potions master?</p><p><em>Love potions </em>were the centerpiece of the Festival. Swirling, fickle little concoctions that Aziraphale, more than once, had to explain <em>were not for consumption.</em></p><p>And it absolutely did <em>not</em> force someone to fall in love with another.</p><p>Aziraphale shuddered at the barbaric thought.</p><p>No, at its core, the Festival of Crystals was a celebration of <em>Love</em>. All year, the townsfolk waited in bated breath for the opportunity to present their loved ones and intended lovers with a love potion, the liquid imbued with the bearer’s heart.</p><p>And every year as Aziraphale looked out at the crowds from his stand at the middle of town square, watching as young teens dared one another to confess their sweet, budding romances, partners whose love endured through time and trials—families, friends, and people who didn’t care for titles and only knew the strength of their love for one another—</p><p>Aziraphale could only sigh and set himself back to work.</p><p>It wasn’t a problem. Many people chose not to partake in the festival. Not for the lack of trying, but—</p><p>Some people were just not born for the rose, Aziraphale thought, careful not to let his dour mood sour his hard work. Potions were tricky, <em>finicky </em>business and Aziraphale swore that even <em>breathing </em>out a single forlorn sigh could culminate to disastrous consequences. It took the utmost care to embody the very paragon of concentration in order to—</p><p>The chiming of a bell broke the potions master from his thoughts.</p><p>“Angel?”</p><p>Aziraphale felt his traitorous heart flutter uselessly behind his ribs. He forced it down, noting with helplessness at the way the brewing batch had seemingly brightened, the saccharine scent sweetening <em>just </em>a smidge.</p><p>“In the back, my dear!” Aziraphale called, willing his voice to retain his normal pitch instead of squeaking like an ungreased wheel.</p><p>The florist poked his head through the wooden doors, bushels of vibrant flowers in his hands. The sight of a gorgeous man, arms bearing the finest Romanticas—their petal-soft pinks and sunset shades complimenting the fiery reds of his hair or the amber-bright shade of his eyes— greeting them at the door would have sent any mortal heart swooning.</p><p>“I’ve got the batch you’ve ordered.”</p><p>But sadly, such was not the case.</p><p>“Ah, good, good,” Aziraphale murmured, swallowing a bitter lump in his throat. “You can set them aside there on the table; I’ll tend to them in a moment after I finish this brew.”</p><p>Crowley did as Aziraphale instructed, quirking a brow at what was likely the harried state the potions master found himself after staying up in the wee hours to rectify Newt’s mistake. Aziraphale could only thank his lucky stars that Crowley had enough of the precious blooms to make up for it.</p><p>Even if it did cost a pretty penny to harvest them last minute.</p><p>Crowley made a noise of understanding. “The apprentice?”</p><p>“He’s…” Aziraphale sighed. “Doing his best,” the potions master weakly offered.  </p><p>Crowley scoffed in turn. “That’s not saying much, is it?”</p><p><em>“Hush,”</em> Aziraphale chided. “He’s still learning.”</p><p>When the nervous young man had offered his hand (begged for apprenticeship), Aziraphale had been understandably…hesitant. He wasn’t used to sharing his space or his craft with anyone, but well. Aziraphale was unfortunately quite easily swayed by tears. And so Newton Pulsifer’s training begun—and along with it, the source of the potions master’s now-chronic headaches.</p><p>Not that Aziraphale had the heart to tell him so. “Besides, reprimanding him will likely make him even <em>more </em>nervous—”</p><p>“Which will lead to more fumbling on his part and more time out of your hands to fix his messes,” Crowley soundly reasoned.</p><p>Aziraphale huffed; it wasn’t <em>all </em>bad. It was…<em>nice </em>having some companionship once in a while (as long as Newt steered clear of his books). Sure it was only for Newt to earn some coin and cultivate some amount of marketable skills—but it was still <em>nice. </em>Not <em>nearly </em>as nice as the easy and steady friendship between himself and the silver-tongued florist, but really, few things in Aziraphale’s life were. <em>Embarrassingly </em>few.</p><p>Aziraphale felt his cheeks redden, not at the rather morose thoughts, but instead at the way those amber eyes of his companion’s raked down his body from head to toe by the firelight of the hearth—the way that brilliant gaze lit up with an unnamed emotion.</p><p>But if Aziraphale had to take a guess, it would be in the ballpark of <em>concern— </em>“Been up all night? You look—” and <em>mild disgust</em>. “Tired,” he muttered lamely.</p><p>Aziraphale huffed, not at all put out. “Like you said. I’m just fixing some messes.”</p><p>After all, it’s not like he expected anything different. “Busiest time of the year for you, isn’t that right?” Crowley asked, meandering towards the bubbling pot from his spot at the doorway.</p><p>The potions master shrugged. “It’s just one season.”  </p><p>“Then it’s back to playing keep-away with the rest of your customers?” Aziraphale pointedly ignored that devilish grin on Crowley’s face. “Forgetting to open up shop for a whole week straight?” he wheedled.</p><p>Aziraphale deadpanned. “Have you any other reason to darken my doorstep or are you simply content to disrupt my work?”  </p><p>“Delivery, remember?” he gleefully stated with a wave of the bouquet. “Busiest time of year for me too, angel! Be lucky I keep extra stock just for you.”</p><p>“That you’ve marked up by at least 50% last-minute,” Aziraphale groused.  </p><p>Crowley huffed. “Call it a Loyalty Reward.”</p><p>To which Aziraphale could only <em>reward </em>him with a scathing glare. “This hardly feels like—"</p><p>“I meant for myself,” Crowley declared with a careless air. The scathing glare sent in his direction likely had the florist automatically backtracking every word. Crowley cleared his throat, starting again. “Are you…you’re going to be there at the festival right? At the stands?”</p><p>“As I am every year, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, the short-lived fireburst of irritation simmering down to annoyed embers. “Fending off the stragglers and hagglers, as always, but yes, I will be there." He'd usually get a handful of nervous teens and bashful adults coming by last minute, having plucked up the bravery to buy a potion and confess. "A tiring season surely, but it keeps the shop going.”</p><p>Crowley nodded absently; Aziraphale took that to mean he didn’t understand a single sentiment the potions master held. </p><p>“And... it's a lovely festival, as well, you see? Love is a wonderful thing,” Aziraphale defended, voice petering out before the edges of bitterness grabbed ahold of him. “And ought to be celebrated," he finished quietly.  </p><p>Crowley smirked. “And to capitalize on, right?” The glare he’d received was downright icy, causing the florist to backpedal once more. “Right, right,” he murmured. There was a pause, just long enough for the edges of what might have been nervousness to crawl in his throat and creep over his words as the he began speaking again, “Say, angel—”</p><p>It was only due to Aziraphale’s knowledge that Crowley would only make himself even more of a nuisance if he prolonged the silent treatment any further that he spared the other man a terse, “Hm,” that really meant <em>Speak now before I throw you out of my shop.</em></p><p>“Do you mind…” he started before clearing his throat. “Before tonight…mind squeezing in one last order?” </p><p>Aziraphale stopped his stirring.</p><p>“For a Love Potion.” </p><p>Aziraphale felt his heart stop, something icy and sharp gripping and squeezing something aching and bleeding in his chest. He watched wordlessly as Crowley dropped some coins on the counter across from him. He could hear, rather than see his smile from the way Crowley’s voice made a nervous titter of laughter. “You know, so I won’t have to…fend off any stragglers.”</p><p><em>Right. </em>“O-oh—” Something in Aziraphale sunk down to the floor and puddled at his shoes uselessly before an autopilot plastered smile reached his face but not his eyes. “Of course! Absolutely,” he replied, stirring near-violently with one hand and reaching for his registry with another. “Come by any time after midday and it should be ready, and remember—this potion is <em>not </em>for consumption for yourself or the other party, please be careful with glassware, there will be absolutely <em>no </em>refunds even if you drop it, and—”</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley chided, something soft and warm in his voice that made something of Aziraphale’s fall flat on the floor and smash to smithereens in his own ears. “I know. I’ll take care of it,” he promised.</p><p>Aziraphale could only nod absently as threadbare constraints of control and propriety kept himself together while the rest of his insides splintered beneath the crushing weight of—</p><p>
  <em>Something.</em>
</p><p>Something in the ballpark of <em>disappointment </em>and utter heartbreak.</p><p>Instead, his sea-storm eyes looked to the coins gleaming on the counter. Aziraphale sucked in a breath before reaching over and pushing the small pile towards the florist. “Keep it, my dear—Free of charge" he managed with what he hoped was a pleasant smile. "As…as part of you Loyalty Reward."</p><p>There was a delighted, breathy <em>"Yeah?" </em>that followed and something with thorns drove itself deep into Aziraphale’s chest at the thought that Crowley would be able to best use the coin on food, drink, and merriment with his intended tonight, rather than offering it up to a potions master that would already do anything to make him happy.</p><p>"Good luck, Crowley,” Aziraphale somehow managed with aching sincerity. “I’m sure you'll make them very happy."</p><p>“Thanks, angel,” was the quiet, hopeful reply.</p><p>It was only after hearing the door creak close and the jingling bell of the shop’s main door fade did Aziraphale stop his stirring. He looked down at the ruined batch, the dull grey clouding his efforts and tainting something once bright.</p><p>He sighed, grabbing the brilliant blooms Crowley left for him on the table, getting back to work. There would be time later. Time to mourn something that was better left unsaid and unspoken; time to reflect on something that was never meant for an old recluse like himself; time to—</p><p>Time to unpack all of this.</p><p><em>After </em>the Festival. After he tacked on another order on top of his ever-growing list.</p><p>Aziraphale hefted the pot over to the drain, disposing of the defective concoction with a tired sigh, finding it far too easy to convince himself that the wetness sliding down his cheek was at the thought of starting the tedious process all over again from scratch.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Crowley weaved through the crowds, a fluttery feeling beneath the cage of his ribs beating its wings helplessly as he caught sight of the colorful stand and the throngs of people bartering for the limited stock now that the sun had set and the festivities would soon begin.</p><p>Pushing and shouldering past the marauding horde to the very front of the booth, Crowley clutched the precious bottle in his hand and hoped that by some miracle, Aziraphale would be left with at least one more—</p><p>For himself.</p><p>For Crowley, if the potions master would have him.</p><p>But instead of the adorably flustered and sweetly grouchy face he’d expected to find—</p><p>In its stead was the frazzled and panic-stricken face of his angel’s apprentice, nearly in tears and looking quite ready to bolt at any moment. “P-please, sir,” the mousy man stuttered, hands up in appeal to surrender. “Calmly wait your turn, and your order will be ready in—”</p><p>“Oi, Toad,” Crowley called.</p><p>The apprentice eyed him with a look of relief, then mild offense. “N-Newt, sir,” he stuttered out.</p><p>“Sure,” Crowley huffed. “Where’s your master?</p><p>At that, the boy’s face seemed to crumble into something like utter despair. “Taking some time off, sir. He’s left m-me in charge for tonight.”</p><p>Newt’s attention was promptly taken by an irate woman, demanding a set of ten to be reserved for tonight, but Crowley could only play back his words over in his head. Aziraphale had taken the night off. The night during the Festival of Crystals.</p><p>The night that Crowley had been waiting for all year to finally let the infuriating bastard know that Crowley adored him with every beat of his pathetically besotted heart.</p><p>And now Crowley was left in the middle of a growing mob of irate customers as Newt further plummeted Aziraphale’s carefully crafted terrible repertoire of customer service.</p><p>Crowley had to wonder if Aziraphale was somewhere wandering the Festival grounds. He wondered if Aziraphale had found someone to give a potion to. He wondered if that person had been waiting as long as he had for the chance to win Aziraphale’s affections. He wondered if he’d only been quicker, had taken the chance sooner—</p><p>“M-Mister Crowley!” Newt called, slamming his sweaty palms against the booth’s counter, startling Crowley from his thoughts. “Please...<em>please</em> find Master Fell for me,” he pleaded. “I know he’d overworked himself crafting another batch so quickly, but I’m afraid I’m at my wit’s end, I—”</p><p>Crowley blinked, the words taking a moment or two to settle in his brain before a traitorous hope began blooming in his chest. “Where is he?”</p><p>Relief flooded Newt’s teary face. “He’s at his home—above the shop. If he’s too tired of course—”</p><p>But Crowley had already turned away, feet carrying him faster as his heart grew lighter, the potion in his hands swirling luminously under the setting of the sun.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As it turned out, Aziraphale really didn’t have time to do much after he poured every ounce of energy he had remaining into the latest brew. Rather than opening himself to the dreaded emptiness that awaited him as he came to terms with facing the inevitable truth that Crowley had found someone while Aziraphale was left with naught but old books and words best left unsaid, what he instead found was the comforting blanket of blackness the moment his head hit the mattress.</p><p>Sadly, it was an all-too-fleeting luxury.</p><p>The door pounded relentlessly and Aziraphale found himself pulled from the grasp of sleep to the colors of sunset painting the sky and the incessant attempts of ruining his rest.</p><p>Aziraphale had every intention of ignoring the pounding and resuming his well-deserved and much-needed sleep before normal brain function slowly blinked on and he realized that his entire livelihood was at stake if his bumbling apprentice had been terrorized into forfeiting the entire stock to the masses. </p><p>Or the more likely scenario—</p><p>The door slammed open and a frenzied Aziraphale half-dressed and half-demented bellowed out, <em>"NEWT, I <strong>SWEAR</strong>, IF YOU'RE BACK EARLY BECAUSE YOU DROPPED ALL THE VIALS</em>—<em>"</em></p><p>He paused, taking in the sight of Crowley, dressed in his finest garb, hand raised mid-knock, and gawping at him with silent questioning in his eyes.</p><p>After what seemed like an eternity, the florist cleared his throat. "Still at the festival, I’m afraid."</p><p>"C-Crowley?" Aziraphale called out tentatively. Hopefully. "What in blazes are you doing here?"</p><p>Crowley shrugged. "Your apprentice asked me to check up on you."</p><p>"Right," Aziraphale sighed, deflating a bit; it seemed that he still had quite a ways to go before his chest stopped aching. "I'm fine, just a bit overworked. I'll be right as rain tomorrow." Stopped aching each time Aziraphale had to pluck the budding hope out by its roots. He glanced down and noted the potion, still glowing iridescently on Crowley's person.</p><p><em>So, he hadn't given it yet.</em>..</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head. “No need to fret, dear.” Well. Crowley had better things to do than to make sure Aziraphale hadn’t keeled over from exhaustion; tonight was a special night for his friend and he would let nothing get in the way of that. “Head back to the festival, have fun!" Aziraphale reassured, turning away while keeping his voice light and cheerful though he felt anything but. Aziraphale wasn’t born for the rose, but he could at least help other gardens to blossom. "You best not waste all my hard work or you'll get an earful—"</p><p>"It'd be wasted if I went back—” Aziraphale startled as he felt a hand on his wrist. He turned back to find Crowley, gazing at him tenderly. "…when you're right here."</p><p>Aziraphale wondered just what kind of fumes he’d inadvertently inhaled to dream up of something like this. Honestly, how utterly <em>cruel—</em></p><p>“If you want it,” Crowley offered, the fiery colors of the potion brighter and lovelier than any Aziraphale had ever seen, held out in front of him. A temptation; a taunt.</p><p>But even if it were a dream, Aziraphale couldn’t say no. Not to Crowley. He’d do anything to take away that anxious, fragile look upon his face; anything to the one he’d silently given his heart to, even for just a fading dream.</p><p>“…and if you say no, I want a refund,” Crowley added with an expectant raise of his brows.</p><p>And at the return of that absolutely <em>boorish </em>behavior, Aziraphale was snapped back to the reality of the situation: that the situation was indeed reality.</p><p>Despite this rather exciting revelation, the very first thing to come out of Aziraphale’s frowning mouth was: “I thought I told you no refunds.”</p><p>Crowley rolled his eyes, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If I dropped the bottle. Besides, what good is a love potion if it won’t make you fall in love with me?”</p><p>Instead of his heart doing somersaults in his chest and absolutely <em>swooning, </em>Aziraphale chose to immediately bristle. “I <em>told </em>you before, that’s <em>not what they do—”</em></p><p>“Well then,” Crowley murmured, handsome face far too close to his own to be good for Aziraphale’s heart. “Looks like you’ll just have to give me a demonstration.”</p><p>To which Aziraphale could only rightfully respond by dragging Crowley all the way back to the Festival, all the while ignoring the brazen way the florist had laced their fingers together. “You know, you could just accept my potion instead of complicating things further for yourself.”</p><p>“You said you wanted a demonstration and all of my stock is with Newt—”</p><p>“Angel, I was <em>flirting, </em>you know, like we always do?”</p><p>Aziraphale made a startled noise. <em>Really?</em> Pushing all of Aziraphale’s buttons for the past few years had been this incorrigible snake’s way of <em>flirting</em>?</p><p>“I mean, I was even debating on whether all this was even necessary. After all, you must've known I've been crazy about you for bloody <em>years</em>—"</p><p>Aziraphale took a deep breath, deciding once again to ignore the happy little jolt of joy that sparked down his spine, “Crowley, if we're doing this, we're doing this <em>properly</em>—”</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Crowley groused back, but even without turning around, Aziraphale could hear, rather than see his smile. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>Mahalaganghiyas—</em>the Love Potion—was to be an offering to one’s partner or partners. Should the other accept, their potions were mixed together, the heart’s essence of the bearers allowed to come together, something that was once shapeless and uncertain, becoming something stronger and solidified.</p><p>And in its wake, a crystal would form.</p><p>It was commonplace for people to examine, dissect, theorize, and brag of the color, cut, and strength of their crystals— maybe red crystals symbolize passionate, young love; maybe blues symbolize a lopsided love; maybe a fragile crystal was a bad omen to a relationship; maybe a square cut was formed from a strong friendship— but in Aziraphale’s own opinion, there was no real rhyme or reason for what kind of crystal was produced between the hearts of two or more people.</p><p>What could a stone’s arbitrary attributes say in light of something so complex as the relationship between people?</p><p>It was still fun to speculate, however. And every year as Aziraphale looked out at the crowds from his stand at the middle of town square, watching as young teens dared one another to confess their sweet, budding romances, partners whose love endured through time and trials—families, friends, and people who didn’t care for titles and only knew the strength of their love for one another—</p><p>He wondered how his own would look. His…and a certain florist’s, though he had quickly buried that longing beneath missed opportunities and untaken chances.</p><p>But Crowley had gotten his hands beneath that soil, unearthing them and letting them bloom beneath his fingertips as Crowley pulled him towards Newt’s stand, the shelves bare and the apprentice slumped over in exhaustion.</p><p>It had only taken one look from the young man before a tired realization flickered from under the layers of exhaustion upon seeing the two men, hand in hand, before the apprentice dutifully produced one last vial concealed in his coat pockets with a tired, triumphant smile. “Might you be looking to purchase a Love Potion, sir? I’ve got one last bottle here, just for you.”</p><p>Aziraphale raised a brow. “You surely don’t expect me to pay for my own product, do you?”</p><p>“Absolutely not, no sir, Master Fell,” Newt stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambled to get the potion to him.</p><p>Taking the glass in his hands and peering into the silvery fluid, Aziraphale uncorked the bottle and breathed in the saccharine scent; unbidden to him, memories flashed before his eyes: of Romantica blooms and amber eyes; of barbs and banter and impossible redheads; of quiet yearning and infuriating, beautiful friendships; of an emotion that swelled beneath his ribs, warm and light within him, a sunbreak between the grey.</p><p>The potions master opened his eyes, finding the swirling material within the vial a shimmering bright white with the faintest wisps of Robin egg blue intermixed.</p><p>He looked to Crowley’s own fiery concoction, apple red with verdant greens like the roses he tended, and caught the florist’s gaze. “Well, angel?” he smirked. “I’m ready for your demonstration.”</p><p>“What, no declaration?” Aziraphale scoffed. “You’re absolutely terrible at romance, dear.”</p><p>Crowley made a show of pouting. “Well, what does a <em>declaration </em>even entail?”</p><p>Aziraphale hummed. “Well for one thing, it states your purpose. As in, <em>I offer my Love for your Love; I offer my devotion for your devotion; I offer my joy for your joy; I offer all that I am, wholly, to you—so that you may offer all that you are, wholly, to me—”</em></p><p>“Very well, I accept.”</p><p>Aziraphale very pointedly ignored the self-satisfied grin on Crowley’s face. “And <em>then, </em>upon acceptance, we—”</p><p>“Mix our fluids?” Crowley helpfully supplied.</p><p>Aziraphale was starting to get the inkling that he was about to make a terrible mistake by going through with this. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to give a single damn. “Yes, we mix fluids,” he deadpanned. “Now give me your bottle before I decide to give you your refund.”</p><p>Crowley handed it over but not without giving Aziraphale a near heart attack by swooping down and claiming his mouth in a sweet, tender, <em>hungry </em>kiss that left the potions master’s hands shaking and thoughts in a daze as the florist steadied his hand and helped drain the contents in his bottle to Aziraphale’s.</p><p>The resultant reaction was—</p><p>Explosive, to say the least. Had Aziraphale not kept an iron-grip on the bottle after Crowley’s efforts to send him to an early grave using his lips, he would have definitely dropped the glass and sent the reaction shattering across the festival grounds.</p><p>Instead, after the stars in his eyes cleared and after he forcibly peeled Crowley off his protective hold over him, he peered into the contents inside the bottle.</p><p>The lovely resultant greeted his gaze, a glittering, <em>clear </em>crystal settled at the bottom of the glass, beautiful as anything.</p><p>“Perfect for a ring,” Crowley murmured, but Aziraphale had already anticipated this plan of attack.</p><p>And retaliated in his own way by pressing an ardent kiss to Crowley’s loud, perfect mouth that the florist returned with equal fervor.</p><p>“Wait, hang on…” Aziraphale murmured, drawing away as Crowley groused in irritation at having their moment so rudely interrupted. <em>“I gave you the potion for free!” </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The potion's official name is a Filipino mishmash of words c: ("precious jewel" but "mahal" also means "love" as an affectionate term)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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